Leaving the village

November 9 1:22pm

Ghreezlen cried when I walked away this morning. I don’t think she knew what was going to happen, that her new friends who chased her in the yard at night, who tickled her while she cackled before bedtime, who woke up and made nusnus buma (my stuffed owl) kiss her — that this strange pale girl from some faraway land was going to leave. How hard for a little kid — why do friends go away? Children think they understand what’s going on, they get used to a funny adult who speaks less than they do, they come to love the new addition to the family, and then she leaves. God damn and God bless the village stay, all at once.

Tuaheshtik. I miss you.

Somehow, slowly and gently, I will become reacquainted with Mohamed Rachidi. Insha’allah. And I will slowly learn more Darija and I will alk to my Moroccan families, and Mohamed will have a friend and hopefully he won’t be as homesick as he must be now...

I regret not being more hospitable to him, I regret not understanding him as a Moroccan, and I pray I can remedy my mistakes when I return to America. I’m not to blame for not knowing and not understanding... God, I hope I can fix things.

These human beings have worked their way into my heart, and I can’t let them go.

Please god, don’t let me forget them.

I hope they haven’t forgotten the promises they made

‘Cause they said they’d stop the fighting,

and they said they would bring peace...

They said they’d feed a hungry child,

and I hope its someday soon...

2:00pm

We just finished a roadside pee stop, and we’re on the road once again.

A little boy wandered out of a nearby mud house and toward our bus. Nawal met him with kisses and a bag of fruit. The bus driver gave him a sandwich. Asia gave him candy. Badrdine said something to him, grasping him by the shoulders while he stood there smiling, holding his gifts. I sat on the bus thinking of home, about Reading Camp, about Mom and Dad. Last night I thought abuot Michael and Connor and how much I missed them.

I have so much yet to learn. Jesus Christ. I love my family. I love my friends. I’ve been so ungrateful.

I don’t think I will ever again feel awkward meeting new people, or strange loving them.

Reading Camp is as much of a foreign country as Morocco, and I probably wouldn’t have loved the village stay as much as I did had I not been involved with Reading Camp.

The little boy walked back to his home with his bananas, apples, and chocolate, and I thought about hugging Rob, about loving LeRon, about Paige, the younger sister of a Reading Camper, about playing Apples to Apples in Laurel House, about homesick campers, about snotty nosed children, about frightened illiterate grandmothers with bad dye jobs, a lot of apprehension, thick accents and promises to children that “I’ll come geet ya if you ain’t havin’ a good tahm.”

And about complaining volunteers and speaking in a Russian accent to my mom and aunt Chris, laughing until we almost pee our pants.

About nights in Nurse Lisa’s room, about the haunted library and Drew’s night terrors, about young adult life problems, about alcohol, sex, and pot, about running from home and finding people who will love you.

Loving people who drive you crazy, who try to run from you but you catch them anyway. Mark hitting on girls a decade younger and trying to get cell phone service in West Wind to talk to his many women, Kory’s anger, humor, and smoking habit, Linda being a badass and handling any problem that comes her way, carrying on in the face of a type-A bitchy volunteer and unethical behavior from high-ups.

Sitting next to Laurel House with Drew, hugging him while he cried about the children and how much he loved them. Driving home with him and talking about significant others, being emotional, loving ridiculously and wanting to “save” people. Maybe they alone don’t need the saving. We all do.

Playing piano with Eric; singing with Rob, Eric and Marcie in the chapel of St. John’s, getting chills from our sound. Eating soups at Mom’s, singing for her while she teared up, heading to Transy to worship again — to worship life, love, friendship, and God.

Marcie collapsed on the couch in June 2006, thinking her life had ended because she saw David with another girl. I hugged her, and told her it would be okay. Clay looked on.

It was okay.

Driving through the Broadway/Main Street intersection aimlessly, texting Clay about suicide, wanting to end it all because that alone seemed the last frontier.

Laying next to him in May 2007, and feeling at home again.

Rob screaming and crying over a cigarette and a Screwdriver on the villa’s balcony in Hilton Head. He didn’t know what to do, and neither did I. He cried from the depths of his soul, I stared, I hugge him and told him I loved him. “Allison, I see the way Clay looks at you! He looks at you with such love, I can’t do that! Why can’t I do that?! Why can’t I be with anyone?!?!” And eyes were on fire and his face contorted in anger.

“Rob, I’m never going to leave you.”

Marcie telling me, “Allison, never leave me.”

And I never will.

Giving Mama Sfia my skirt, and watching her face light up and her eyes twinkle with tears when I tell her, “Min Amrika.” (It’s from America).

Barka and Sfia hesitating to let me go, kissing my dozens of time and giving me the longest hugs. How sweet kanbrik (I love you) sounds.

The filth covering my legs, ankles, and feet. That I never managed to stop spraying pee onto myself.

My poop trees, my brother Mohammed.

That was the village.